Date My Dress

The saying goes something like, “Don’t judge a book by its cover," and I’d like to say that I adhere to age-old adages as much as the next guy. Lately, however, I’ve been struggling with this one in particular when it comes to my dating life. I’ve noticed recently that guys and girls alike are falling victim to my critical eye, getting the once-over and being mentally tossed into the “yes” or “no” pile based on a couple of snap judgments. Now I know a good bicep when I see one, and would love to date his bone structure at all costs, but this time, my radar isn’t even reaching skin-deep.

I’m talking about personal style, from the neckerchief to the floor. And my particular indiscretion, while superficial in context, is far from superficially motivated. Thanks to today’s fashion trends, SO much more can be read about a person just by looking at what he or she is wearing. With the advent of the “hipster” and the “trixie” or whatever overly descriptive, mildly constricting genre one happens to fall into, everything from music taste to favorite cocktail can be read on what you pull out of your closet. No longer do I feel guilty for snap judging! Simple self-expression has morphed into blatant advertising of the minutest personal details. Tight black T-shirt, skinny jeans and Converse = Joy Division and a PBR, while a strappy halter with a white jean skirt couldn’t be more Maroon Five with a Bacardi & Diet. Over-sized t-shirt, cargo shorts and Vans? Nirvana me up with a MGD on tap.

Now you can understand my panic, when I’m on to Date #3 and I’ve already rolled out the neutral and casual comfy T-shirt for Date #1 and the fail-safe, sex-on-eggs dress for Date #2, leaving me with some cash tips and raw shopping nerve to splurge on the quintessential outfit that will reveal all the right things about me.

So off I go, to the Chicago shopper's mecca: Michigan Ave and then some. The Loehman’s, the Nordstrom’s, the Macy’s, the H&M etc. Gasping and clawing, I bravely fight my way through the hordes of tweens on their prom-dress hunt, suburbanites on the pre-Wicked matinee time clock and corporate honeys dieting away their lunch break. Despite a (relatively) full wallet and a (relatively) open-mind, I somehow come up empty-handed.

To be utterly dramatic, nothing captured “me!" It seemed impossible to get away from the seasonal jewel-tones that sent visions of Jolly Ranchers dancing in my head, or the idiotic pockets on shapeless cotton dress and those infamous gladiator sandals. Forget about revealing too much cleavage. I’m worried about revealing a false identity! What? You think I’m high maintenance and only eat dry toast?! No, no! It’s only my strappy sandals before noon talking!!

Sigh. Yet fear not, for I eventually found something to wear. Exhausted and near defeat, I met up with my dearest friend Dennis and stumbled into a vintage store on the way home. And as far away as possible from current (and even recent) trends… I found my outfit. (And Dennis found his).

Judge away, but try and pinpoint a predictable mode of behavior with this blinding gradient leotard and red boater flats! Ok, maybe it’s a little predictable or reminiscent of my participation in the 1988 Summer Olympics as a member of the Lithuanian gymnastics team, but at least it’s fantastically fun (and not to mention, ridiculous...ly comfortable)

Or maybe it is just as revealing of my personality— in its own, funny way. Who knows what details about my life can be read on its electric blue exterior, but its mere existence on my person works as a bit of honest advertising at the very least. Yes, I AM fun, and a little crazy, and actually do have the balls to wear this thing out in public. And what guy doesn’t like a little confidence with his spandex? We’ll just have to see… Wish me luck, daters. I’ll let you know how it goes.

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